


No Contest

by caloriebomb



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Belly Kink, Feeding, Feeding Kink, M/M, Weight Gain, chubby Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4743347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a new ice cream place below Steve and Bucky's apartment, and it offers a challenge Steve can't refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Contest

**Author's Note:**

> Just another super-long egregiously kinky weight gain fic chock-full of obscene amounts of food and little-to-no character development. Enjoy...?
> 
> This was written for the summerchubbin tumblr tag, for the prompt "eating contests."

It's a hundred and five disgusting degrees, and Bucky can't find Steve. Two terrible ways to start the morning.

“Stevie?” Bucky calls as he heads to the bathroom to wash his face and get dressed, but there's no answer. Their apartment's tiny, so when he pads fresh-faced across Steve's tacked-up canvas and paint-splattered drop cloth on the floor, he's already covered eighty percent of where Steve might be. A quick glance shows him that Steve's bedroom is empty, too, so that's another ten percent of no-Steve territory, which leaves just their dinky kitchenette.

“What the hell?” Bucky says. 

“Cooler down here,” Steve says. He's lying shirtless on the linoleum, his blond hair dark with sweat, his cheeks flushed. Two ice cubes melt down the ridges of his abs. 

“At least we have A/C,” Bucky says sarcastically, flopping down into the limited space beside him. It is cooler, a little. 

“Doesn't work for shit,” Steve says. “And neither do I. Can't paint. Can't lift. Can't run.”

“I hollered for you,” Bucky says.

“Can't hear,” Steve says. “Too much sweat in my ears.”

Bucky levers himself up on his good arm and says, “Let's catch a movie or something, huh? Go somewhere with real A/C, the powerful subzero stuff.”

“Gotta finish that commission by Thursday,” Steve says. 

“I can see you're really putting work in,” Bucky says. 

“How can this be happening? It's only June,” Steve says, turning big blue eyes imploringly on Bucky, but his morose expression lightens a little when he gets a good look. “Hey! I like your shirt.”

“Just a shirt,” Bucky says, but he can't help and smile a little at Steve's grin. Usually he takes great care to pin the end of his t-shirt sleeve across what's left of his shoulder, hiding it from view as well as he can, but he's wearing a baggy grey tank-top today and the stump is on full display. He's too hot to give a shit. “C'mon,” he says, to change the subject. “If we hustle we can catch a matinee.”

“Fine,” Steve says, and sits upright, muscles flexing in places Bucky doesn't even think he himself possesses. He gets it, he does: Steve was shrimpy as hell for most of his life, and even years after his first late-adolescent growth spurt it means something to him, to stay big, to stay strong, to be the antithesis of his sickly childhood self... but it's still kind of a surprise every time Bucky sees his best friend's body. And not a good surprise, either. Sure, Steve looks great – looks fucking phenomenal, truth be told – but there's something about his hard-earned muscle that makes Bucky nervous. He knows Steve has a tendency to obsess, to over-work himself especially when he's anxious or depressed, and Bucky's found that there's a correlation between Steve's emotional state and the width of his biceps. It's not vanity that keeps Steve pumping iron. He's never been overly concerned with looks. He hits the gym because his mom died still scared for his health; lifts because he can't stand people thinking he's weak; runs himself ragged because for seventeen years he was beat up on the regular; does push-ups til he passes out because deep down, he blames himself for what happened to Bucky. Which is fucking bullshit, as Bucky – and Sam, their therapist at the VA – has told him over, and over. But Steve's a stubborn little shit who can't see past his own guilt complex. 

“What movie're we gonna see?” Steve says now, reaching down to haul Bucky up. 

“Fucking anything,” Bucky says. “I'd watch a movie of grass growing if I could do it in A/C.”

Steve pulls on a t-shirt so threadbare it could scarcely be called fabric, and doesn't look in the mirror as he passes it on the way to the door. Bucky takes his lead and studiously avoids his own reflection, trying to ignore how exposed his left shoulder feels. It's not as if it's particularly gory – the seam of the amputation is barely even a scar anymore, really. But still, he doesn't like how people always stare. Well, as Steve always says – fuck 'em. 

They take the elevator the four floors down because it's too hot to even think about the stairs, but when they reach the ground floor and lurch out into the steaming, hell-like New York street, Bucky stops Steve with a hand across his (ludicrously firm) chest. 

“Dude,” he says. 

“What?” Steve gasps. He's panting already. What a fuckin' drama queen. 

“How'd we miss this? Look what moved in downstairs!”

“The Ice Queen,” Steve reads, squinting at the brightly-colored sign. “Thirty flavors of sin. Plus free wi-fi, ooh! Wonder if the connection will reach the apartment.”

“Let's get sundaes,” Bucky says, and it's a testament to how hot Steve is that he doesn't even protest, just follows Bucky through the door and into –

“Heaven,” Steve says, closing his eyes as a wave of freezing A/C hits them. 

“Shut the door behind you,” says the woman behind the counter. “Gotta keep these nipples perky.”

Bucky snorts and blushes at the same time. The woman's around their age, late twenties, with fiery red hair and an assortment of nose piercings – both nostrils, double septum – and yeah, she's definitely not wearing a bra beneath that black tank top. 

“Welcome to the neighborhood!” Steve says, in a much higher pitch than usual, which means he's registered how smoking hot this girl is and is suffering the resultant panic.

“Thanks,” she says, with one cooly raised eyebrow. 

“We live upstairs!” he says, and points, inanely.

“I'll remember that when I need to borrow a cup of sugar,” says the woman. One side of her mouth is quirking ever-so-slightly, as if she's trying not to smile, and Bucky grins. No one is immune to the charms of a nervous Steve Rogers. 

“I'm Steve,” Steve says, calming down a little. “And this is Bucky.”

“Pleasure,” Bucky says.

“Natasha,” says Natasha. “Hmm. I guess if you're neighbors, it's in my best interest to hook you as soon as I can. Make a couple of regulars out of you. First visit's my treat, boys. Anything you want.”

“Anything?” Bucky says, as Steve's busy stammering out a litany of “Thank you ma'am, too kind, so generous, don't have to”s. 

“Within reason,” says Natasha. 

“Well,” says Bucky, “we did come in here for a banana split...”

“I'll do you one better,” says Natasha, and takes down a huge silver dish. “I'll give you the Ice Queen Social. It's my signature dish.”

This turns out to be a ten-scoop monstrosity with hot fudge, caramel, peanuts, peanut butter cups, bananas, and thick homemade whipped cream, served with four freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies. The ice cream is a miracle of sweetness and flavor and texture – in fact, it's easily the best Bucky's ever had, and from the moans Steve's making as he eats, he agrees. 

It's actually a little hypnotic, how much Steve seems to be enjoying the sundae, and Bucky keeps pausing despite himself to watch. He doesn't get to see this nearly as much as he'd like: Steve, perfectly, unself-consciously pleased, all breathy little moans, fluttering eyelashes, full cheeks, bite after bite, barely a breath in between. Total focus, total pleasure. Is this what he's like when he fucks, too? 

No, Bucky. Don't go there.

He clears his throat and digs back into what's left of the sundae – which isn't much, actually. Steve kind of went to town while Bucky was... distracted. 

“Natasha,” Steve says, once he's cleaned the last bit of caramel from his spoon. “You have a gift.”

“So, you'll come back?” she says. 

“God, yes,” Steve says, looking horrified at the mere suggestion he might not. 

“Well,” she says, and comes out from behind the counter to hand him a bright pink punch-card, like the kind coffee shops give out. “We're running an opening promotion. Eat a gallon of each flavor, and you'll eat free ice cream forever. Sundaes and specialty items like floats or shakes will still cost you extra, but cones and cups? Free for life.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” Bucky says suspiciously, and Natasha turns to him, a gleam in her eye. 

“There's a catch,” she says. “You only have until July 15th.”

“Oh, jeez,” says Steve.

“That's a gallon a day,” Bucky says. 

“Yep,” says Natasha. 

“Can we do it as a team?” Steve says hopefully.

“Nope. And you have to provide video documentation to prove you've eaten it all by yourself, in one day. You can't just buy thirty gallons and keep them in your industrial freezer or whatever. We'll be using clips from the videos on our website, by the way, so you have to sign over the media rights, too.” Natasha leans forward, serious. "This challenge is definitely not for the faint of heart.”

“No one's gonna do it,” says Bucky – but even as he speaks, Steve is pursing his lips, intrigued, and he realizes how very much he'd love to see Steve try. 

“Three people have already finished their first gallon,” Natasha says, smirking. 

“How much does one gallon cost?” Steve says. 

“Twelve dollars plus tax, usually. But for those who take on the challenge, eight fifty.”

Steve whistles low. “That's still quite a bit of cash.”

“Not if you think about how much you'll save afterwards,” Bucky says. “Stevie, this place is right downstairs. Imagine eating free for the rest of your life! You go through a pint a day when you're bulking – think how much you spend on that alone!”

But Steve was tempted by more than the money, Bucky knew. Steve Rogers loved a good challenge.

“You'd treat it like any other part of your training,” Bucky says. “Bench 250, finish a commission, eat a gallon.”

“I don't know,” Steve says. “Seems kind of – crazy, doesn't it?”

“Hey,” says Natasha mildly. 

“Not you, ma'am,” Steve says, flushing. 

“It is a hell of a lot of ice cream,” Bucky says. “I know I couldn't do it, that's for sure.”

“Oh, I could do it,” Steve says. “I just –”

“Tell you what,” Bucky says. “Let's bet on it. I bet you can't do it. But if I'm wrong, and you finish the challenge, I'll pay for all thirty gallons.”

“And if I'm wrong?”

“If you can't do it,” Bucky says, “you have to buy all my movie tickets til the new year.”

“Deal,” Steve says, and holds out his huge paw to shake. Natasha beams. 

+

Steve's first gallon is vanilla, and he takes it right to the movie theater with them. Nobody stops him as they walk in, probably because the sight is so strange, and Bucky sets his phone to record and props it up so it'll capture Steve as he eats through the film. 

The movie's an action flick, mindless and stupid, and Bucky's hyper-aware of the motion of Steve's arm, up and down, ice cream to mouth, rapid at first and then slowing, til it stops altogether about forty minutes in. The gallon's still half-full, but Bucky can hear Steve breathing heavily, letting out a few tight little burps. 

“You lose,” Bucky hisses in his ear, and after a few seconds, the up and down motion starts up again and Bucky can hear Steve slurping away at his spoon, burping here and there as his breathing becomes more and more labored. 

And Bucky, god help him, is hard. 

It's not like he's never been turned on by Steve before. He's not blind, and his best friend's basically a god among mortals in the looks department, so yeah, he's popped a few inappropriate woodies that he's immediately tried to repress from his memory (except late at night sometimes, when he's rooting through the spank bank for good material, but jesus, he tries not to think about that, either). This, though – this is something else. Steve's wheezing now, raising the cardboard tub to his mouth and gulping at the melted cream there as the credits begin to roll, and Bucky's rock hard and praying to god that his boner goes down before the lights go up. 

No such fucking luck.

But Steve, thank christ, is in no state to notice. He's leaned far back in his chair, palming at his belly through his threadbare shirt, his abs visibly rounded through the thin material.

“Oh my god,” Steve wheezes. “I can't. I quit.”

“You did, though,” Bucky says, and holds his phone up for one last shot of the empty inside of the tub. 

“Can we just sit here for a minute,” Steve says. “I can't move.”

“As long as you want,” Bucky says, and means it.

+

They get into a bit of a routine, Bucky and Steve. The heat wave doesn't let up – in fact, it just gets more intense as June wears on – and by necessity they both go a little nocturnal. Nighttime's cooler, so night is when Bucky does his freelance coding, and night is when Steve paints, and they both sleep pretty late every morning. Then they head down to Natasha's for the daily gallon. Sometimes Steve starts in on it in the store itself, chatting with Nat or her partner Clint as he gets to work, and sometimes he and Bucky will take the gallon the block and a half to the movie theater, where Steve will eat ice cream while they watch. Sometimes he'll just nibble the ice cream all day between regular meals, and then melt the rest and chug it before he starts his night's painting. 

It gets easier quickly – Bucky can see that. In just a week – seven gallons – Steve's wheezing less, eating faster, finishing quicker and needing less of a rest afterwards. It's still not a minor undertaking, but Bucky can see that Steve's enjoying himself. 

With the heat and the endless ice cream comes another change, too, one that startles Bucky and worries him, at first. 

Steve stops working out. Cold turkey. 

It takes Bucky about a week to realize that Steve hasn't hit the gym once in a seven days, and it takes him three more days to bring it up. 

“Too fucking hot,” Steve says, when Bucky finally asks. He and Bucky are sitting on the kitchen floor, Bucky drinking a beer while Steve dips Oreos in the liquidy dregs of his latest gallon – peanut butter cookie dough. He'd eaten most of it in milkshake form earlier, but the combination of ice cream and milk had been a little much for him on top of the pizza they had for lunch, so it's pushing nine pm and the gallon's still not quite done. Steve's wearing boxers and a blue tank top, and Bucky has to be imagining the miniscule curve he sees to Steve's normally-flat stomach. It's only been ten days. No way Steve's put on weight in just ten days. 

“Too hot for the gym,” Bucky repeats. “I never thought I'd hear you say that.”

“Plus,” Steve says through a mouthful of Oreo, “you try working out on a bellyful of ice cream. I think I'd puke.”

“Good point,” Bucky says, and waits a moment before saying, “And you're... okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, bringing a goopy spoonful to his lips. He's not looking at Bucky, and his cheeks are a little flushed – whether from heat, fullness, or embarrassment, Bucky's not sure. “I know I can get a little intense with the workouts, but... I just like having a goal, you know? Something I can work towards. Something with results.”

“And this ice cream challenge hits that button for you,” Bucky realizes. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, and finally looks up. “Is that insane?”

“Not at all,” Bucky says. “It makes sense.”

“Done,” Steve says, and drops the cardboard tub with a clatter. “Oof. God, I'm full. I need something salty, though. I'm so sick of sweets. There any pizza left?”

“We finished it,” Bucky says.

“Damn,” Steve says, rubbing his belly. “Would you call that Chinese place and get me some Lo Mein?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and burps. “I need some real food before I turn into an ice cream cone.”

Shrugging, Bucky tugs his phone out of his pocket and dials, adds an order of Peking Ravioli and Scallion Pancakes to the Lo Mein at the last minute, because honestly he's kind of curious to see how much Steve can pack away.

The answer is: a lot. Steve gets through the entire carton of Lo Mein while they watch the Daily Show, and finishes off most of the ravioli and pancakes while they watch a few back episodes of Parks and Recreation. He eats absently but very steadily, like he's getting used to the hand-to-mouth motions of it, and he burps often and without shame. Once he thumps his belly a few times to shake out a huge belch, then immediately stuffs his face with two ravioli, like he's trying to pack the space the air left in him. 

Bucky holds a pillow over his lap and thinks about math. Two plus two is four. Four plus four is eight. Eight gallons plus eight gallons is – no. Think about fish. Carp. Their big freaky eyes. Anything but Steve and his slightly labored breathing, the little groan he lets out as he pushes the scallion pancakes away and leans back on the couch, his stomach rising and falling as he breathes through his fullness. 

But it's the little smile on his face that pushes Bucky over the edge. It's that perfectly content, satiated Steve Rogers smile that Bucky jerks off to before he falls asleep that night. He hasn't seen that smile in a long, long time. 

+

Week two, gallon fourteen. There is no denying it: Steve's put on a few pounds. The complete and sudden cessation of exercise coupled with the huge excess in calories is making itself ever-so-slightly apparent in Steve's perfect physique. His eight pack is dwindling to a four pack. His chin is barely softer. His hips are barely wider. His ass is barely thicker. But he is, undeniably: Softer, wider, thicker. 

And hungrier. 

He needs salty food, he claims, and in between bowlfuls of ice cream he drags Bucky to the diner for cheeseburgers, or to the Italian place for bowls of pasta. He orders sushi and steak burritos and General Tso's, and when Bucky starts showing up with family size bags of potato chips to allay his salt craving, he starts munching those, too, while he's on the phone with the pizza parlor placing an order for a Meat Lover's. 

It's like something's snapped in him. Years of depriving himself, first from poverty, then from discipline, have given way to an all-consuming appetite that Bucky can only stand by and marvel at. And worry, a little, because Steve's pushing himself the way he's always pushed himself through workouts: with a singleminded intensity that leaves everyone else in the dust. He eats like he's training, like every bite is a new goal, and every day is another chance to break a record, and even when he's panting for breath after chugging half a gallon of melted brownie batter ice cream, he reaches for the bag of Doritos and starts crunching. 

The difference lies in that smile. That happy little Rogers grin that steals across his face when he's just polished off an order of cheese fries and a bowl of chili. The way he sighs with contentment as he spoons ice cream into his full, pink mouth, how he lets out a pleased moan as he pats his sloshing belly. 

That smile keeps Bucky from worrying. 

It also keeps him on the edge of a constant erection.

So this, he realizes with something approaching despair, is his bulletproof kink: Steve satisfied. The more Steve groans his pleasure as he licks cream from his finger, the more Bucky imagines licking cream from Steve's cock. He wants to be Steve's bowl of ice cream. Wants to bring him pleasure like that. 

Week three, gallon 21. Steve's tummy is just that: a tummy. It rounds out just a little bit from his softening pecs, but enough that even Natasha notices. 

“Look at my handiwork,” she says, patting his stomach as he comes in for gallon 22, almond fudge swirl. “You look spectacular.”

“I wasn't thinking about the side effects,” Steve admits. “My pants are getting tight.”

“Good,” says Natasha. “Means some of it's going to that splendid ass of yours.”

Steve turns bright pink, and Natasha holds up an enormous chocolate-covered cookie. “Ice cream sandwiches are our new thing, by the way,” she says. “These cookies will go great with the almond fudge. Here, let me put a couple together for you.”

She makes Steve two of the biggest, thickest ice cream sandwiches Bucky's ever seen, rolling the sides in crushed butterfinger, and she watches with her feline grin as Steve sits down to eat them both, despite the breakfast sandwich and hashbrowns Bucky knows he just put away. Three people walk in while he's eating, and all three of them order an ice cream sandwich after seeing Steve's evident delight.

“You're my best publicity!” Nat says.

“You don't need publicity,” Steve says, adjusting the waistband of his jeans. “Your ice cream stands on its own.”

“For that compliment, I'll throw in a pint of hot fudge,” she says, and true to her word, she does. Upstairs, Steve pours the entire thing across the top of his gallon like the world's biggest sundae, and Bucky watches in mute, aroused awe as he spoons it up and licks his lips. He unbuttons his jeans as his belly swells gently to fill in the space. 

By the end of week three, Steve's grown out of his jeans completely, and is wearing just mesh basketball shorts, pulled down beneath his sensitive, ever-full stomach. His threadbare t-shirt clings to his belly and hips, and Bucky swears his pecs look softer, puffier. His ass is fatter, too, and Bucky has to stop himself from salivating as he watches it spread across one of Nat's white plastic chairs. 

“Gallon twenty-eight,” Nat says. “Just two more to go. Steve, I've gotta hand it to you. You're a fucking star.”

“Can I get a couple chocolate-dipped waffle cones?” Steve says. “I feel like going old school today.”

Nat gives him a stack of five cones, and Bucky watches Steve eat towering ice cream cone after towering ice cream cone, then take a break for a meatball sub. His belly pushes subtly outwards as he eats, and by the end of the day Bucky swears it's an inch bigger than it was that morning. 

“Let's see those abs,” Bucky says. “Bet they're pretty stretched out, huh?”

“Wanna know something scary?” Steve says, through a huge bite of meatball. “They're gone already.”

“What?”

“I'm not kidding. No abs. So much fucking work to build them, then poof! A month off and they're gone.”

“I'll believe it when I see it,” Bucky says, and Steve wipes his saucy fingers on a napkin and leans back, rolls down the waistband of his shorts and pushes up his t-shirt. 

It's true. Steve's abs are gone. His stomach is still very firm, but it's round, now, bows unmistakably outward, and the lines of muscle are invisible behind a layer of pudge. Steve prods his tummy and burps, low and deep, then pulls his shirt down. He's blushing a little.

“Gonna take some real work to get those back,” he says.

“You're going back to the gym? When the challenge is up?”

Steve shrugs, like he doesn't really want to think about it. “Guess so,” he says, and pushes the rest of his sub into his mouth. Before he's even finished chewing he's reaching for the melting remains of his gallon of cotton candy ice cream. 

“You don't have to,” Bucky says. 

“I like having goals,” Steve mumbles, and shrugs again, then winces. “Probably didn't need those breadsticks. Woof. I'm full.”

“You look full.”

Steve burps, deep and brassy, and starts shoveling the ice cream into his mouth. 

+

Nat insists on throwing Steve a dinner party at her apartment when he finishes his thirtieth gallon, and Bucky realizes that they're really friends, now, he and Steve and Nat and Clint. Natasha cooks panfuls of lasagna and it's just as good as her ice cream, and Steve just keeps serving himself more, is on his fourth serving by the time Bucky's barely put a dent in his second. His basketball shorts ride low on his hips and show off the roundness of his stomach, the slight, soft hints of love handles at his hips, and his shirt rides up a little as he drinks beer and eats everyone under the table. 

“Diet starts tomorrow,” he keeps saying before he puts another bite of something into his mouth, and Bucky's pretty sure he finishes off nearly an entire baguette of garlic bread by himself, not to mention half a pan of cheesy, sausage-laden lasagna. He's in the mode, eating with calm continuity, bite after bite, only stopping to rustle up a few wet, tortured burps. 

“Back to the gym tomorrow,” he says when Natasha serves him a huge slice of chocolate cake, and says it again when he takes seconds. Again when he has thirds, and by the time he's on his fourth slice, covered with homemade whipped cream and drowning in buttercream, his shirt's ridden up so much it shows an enticing little slice of golden belly, swelling over his waistband, so tight and full it looks inflated. 

Everyone else has finished eating by now, and it's just Steve, and Clint says, “I bet you could finish off that whole cake by yourself, couldn't you?”

Steve eyes the remaining half of three-layer cake and says, “Probably.”

“Tell you what,” Natasha says. “There's a whole other lasagna in the freezer, and it's yours if you finish the cake.”

“Whoa, now,” Bucky says. “Let's not get crazy. He's gonna burst!”

“Am not,” Steve says, taking a determined swig of beer, and pulls the cake platter towards himself. “Gym tomorrow,” he mutters, and digs his fork directly in. 

It takes him about forty minutes, plus two glasses of milk, but Steve does it. He finishes the cake. By that time, Nat, Clint and Bucky are all quite drunk, having been drinking the whole time Steve was eating. Steve looks drunk, too – looks totally knocked-out, his face smeared in chocolate, his stomach heaving. It's rounder than Bucky's ever seen it, and Steve, slumped in his chair, chin pillowing on the tiny hint of softness below his jawline, looks truly unfit for the first time. Sure, he's still muscly as hell, but with that bloated stomach Bucky can see that if he keeps eating, he won't be for long. Already the thick muscles of his arms are blurring just a bit, softening up, and when Steve lets out a long, painful-sounding burp, his stomach moves in a way that could almost be described as a jiggle. Bucky knows that tomorrow the bloat will go down, but for now... Steve looks almost chunky. 

“You're a treasure,” Nat says, and leans over to kiss him right on his chocolate-smeared lips. After a second, Clint does the same. Bucky tries not to kill them both right then and there, but Steve just smiles, sleepy and packed and so, so content. His smile is marred every so often by a belch or a wince as his full belly makes itself painfully known, but the smile always returns.

“I can't walk home,” Steve admits, which is obvious. It's only two blocks, but he can barely stand from the table to get to the couch. He walks with both hands on his stomach, hunched over slightly, off-balance, and once he's on the couch he leans back all the way, showing off his too-small t-shirt. Bucky can see red lines from where his basketball shorts have been digging into him.

“We have a guest bedroom,” says Clint.

“You can both stay here,” says Nat. “If you don't mind sharing a bed. I think the couch is too short for either of you.”

“Don't mind,” Steve murmurs, and hisses out a pained belch.

They stay up a while later, talking and laughing, and eventually Steve digests enough to stumble into the guest bedroom and shuck off his shirt. In the dim light, the dome of his belly almost shines, it's so tight and packed. Bucky takes off his shirt, too, and lies next to Steve, listening with painful arousal as Steve burps and grunts and moans, trying to get comfortable beneath the weight of his incredibly full stomach. 

“Gonna do a hundred crunches tomorrow,” Steve says. 

“Sure you are,” says Bucky. 

“Fuck, that hurts,” Steve says, rubbing his stomach gingerly, then, in a small, almost shy voice, “Buck? D'you think you could...? I can barely lift my arms, man, and I...”

“Sure,” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice steady, and places one hand carefully on Steve's warm, taut stomach. “God, I can feel how full you are.”

“So fucking full,” Steve says. “Yeah, just like that. Ugh, that feels amazing.”

Bucky keeps up slow circles until Steve's labored breathing evens out, punctuated here and there by a sleep-heavy belch and a little sigh. Then, once he's sure Steve's asleep, he goes to the bathroom and gets himself off so hard he has to bite his lip to keep from shouting.

+

He wakes up with Steve's heavy hand resting on his hip, Steve snoring quietly, eyelashes fluttering, though he wakes almost as soon as Bucky does. 

“Oh my god,” Steve says, hands going immediately to his stomach, which doesn't look nearly as deflated as Bucky might have expected. “I have a food hangover.”

“I have a real hangover,” Bucky says thickly. 

“What's that smell?” Steve says, raising his head like a bloodhound.

The smell, it turns out, is waffles. With ice cream. And syrup. 

“I understand completely if you don't want any ice cream,” Nat says to Steve. “God knows you've had enough. But it's Sunday, and every Sunday, Clint and I have waffles and ice cream. It's tradition.”

Steve has two waffles without ice cream, and then, with a clear air of struggling with himself, has a third waffle with enough ice cream to make up for the first two. He absentmindedly slathers all three of them with thick whipped butter and maple syrup, and drinks three cups of coffee with heavy cream and several spoonfuls of sugar. Bucky watches him with elation. 

“What happened to the gym?” Bucky says as they walk the two broiling blocks homeward.

“Tomorrow,” Steve says, patting his stomach and wincing. “This is my last day of freedom.”

To celebrate his last day, Steve eats an entire large pepperoni pizza for dinner, then raids the cupboards for his leftover stash of Oreos, which he eats in a bowl of whole milk like cereal. “The gym's gonna be a bitch tomorrow,” Steve says, chasing an Oreo with his spoon. 

“You wanna catch a movie after your workout?” Bucky says. “Say, noon?”

“Sure,” Steve says, concentrating on tugging down the waistband of his mesh shorts to give his stomach a little more room. “Noon.”

+

But by noon, Steve's only just woken up, still sleep-groggy in his boxers and a too-tight tank top. Bucky eats cereal as Steve makes himself a grilled cheese and three fried eggs, and he tries not to notice how Steve's ass has plumped up into two grabbable handfuls that jiggle a little when he walks. 

“I'm gonna hit the gym tonight,” Steve says, his mouth full. “Skip the heat of the day.”

“Right,” says Bucky.

At the movie, Bucky gets an extra-large popcorn and only eats three handfuls of it. The tub is empty by the time the movie's over, but Steve says, “I'm starved. Let's get some lunch.”

At the restaurant, Steve asks for a caesar salad with grilled steak, and Bucky feels a little flutter of panic at the glum way he gives his order. It's clear he doesn't want a salad. He'd spent an inordinately long time staring at the menu page with all the fried platters, and Bucky knows Steve well enough to know he was eyeing the fish and chips. 

So Bucky, because he's a good friend – or the worst? – orders the fish and chips. Plus a buffalo wing appetizer, most of which ends up in Steve's belly. 

When their main dishes come, Steve eats his grilled steak but ignores the lettuce of his salad, while Bucky picks listlessly at his french fries. 

“That looks good,” he says.

“This?” Steve says, looking down at his salad.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “I guess I wasn't really in the mood for fish.”

Steve looks so hopeful. “You wanna trade?” he says. “I wouldn't mind – I mean, if you --”

“Sure,” Bucky says, and watches as the smile returns to Steve's face. He polishes off the fish and chips in record time, and pats his stomach happily. 

“Awesome,” he says, as Bucky adjusts himself subtly in his pants. 

“You ready to start cashing in on free ice cream for life?” Bucky says, as they near their building and Nat's shop. 

“I think I need to take at least a one day break,” Steve laughs, but Bucky sees the longing way he eyes the windows. “God,” he says, pausing outside her door. “I think I got addicted! Look at this, my mouth is watering like crazy.”

“She's trying out a new sundae,” Bucky says, reading the menu through the window. “Strawberry shortcake, shit!”

Steve gets a strawberry shortcake sundae, and Nat gives him five scoops of vanilla instead of three. He hunkers down to eat it, humming happily even as he tugs up the waistband of his shorts and tugs down the creeping hemline of his t-shirt. 

Bucky goes out with some coders that evening, leaves Steve sprawled out on their cool kitchen floor, drinking a glass of chocolate milk and poking at his phone. He thinks Bucky can't see what he's googling, but Bucky does see: Indian delivery places. 

“Have a good workout,” Bucky says as a goodbye, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Steve's not going anywhere. 

+

But the next day, Steve says, “I worked out so hard last night, my muscles are still cramping.”

“Really,” Bucky says. He tries not to sound disappointed.

“Yep,” said Steve, not meeting Bucky's eyes. “I'm back in the game!”

And Bucky realizes Steve is lying. 

He debates saying anything, but he's troubled. And he's even more troubled when Steve suggests they head down to Nat's for breakfast, where he proceeds to eat a brownie sundae before starting in on a giant bag of cheese doodles. 

It's one thing for Steve to like stuffing himself. Bucky likes it too.

It's another thing for Steve to feel bad about it. For one thing, he's not smiling as he eats, and even the footlong Italian hoagie he has for lunch doesn't perk him up much. Bucky's normal arousal is a non-issue – apparently, without the smile, Steve's gluttony does nothing for him. 

So he starts thinking. 

The next day, he meets Steve for lunch after Steve disappears for his “morning workout,” though Steve's bloated belly suggests he'd snuck off somewhere for breakfast, instead. So as Steve starts agonizing over the menu, one hand unconsciously patting his already stuffed stomach, Bucky sets his idea into motion. 

“I have to admit,” he says. “You killed Nat's challenge.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, frowning a little. 

“And I know you like goals,” Bucky continues. 

“Yeah?” says Steve. 

“Well, I saw this advertised,” Bucky says, and slides his phone across the table so Steve can see the window he's got up there. 

“Take the ten-a-day challenge,” Steve reads. “Ten burgers a day for ten days. Winner eats free for a year. Huh.” He looks up, interest clear in his eyes. 

“I feel like you've got a shot,” Bucky says. 

“Damn straight I've got a shot,” Steve says, then sighs, touching his belly gently. “That would seriously fuck up my workout schedule, though.”

“Steve,” Bucky says. “Tell me the truth. Which makes you happier? Working out, or eating?”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Eating,” he says. “But... it's... it's not...”

“You should do what makes you happy,” Bucky says. “And for what it's worth...” He flushes, but gets the words out. “Seeing you happy makes me happy.”

Steve's worried expression softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man. I saw how you were when you were a workout freak, and how you are as a... foodie. There's no contest!”

“Oh,” says Steve, glancing back at Bucky's phone. “There's a contest, all right.”

+

The second day of the ten-a-day, Clint shows up to cheer Steve on. The contest is in a divey little place that makes up in flavor what it lacks in ambience, and their burgers are truly delicious. Bucky can attest, because he has one to keep Steve company the first day. Steve brings along his iPad, and they split the headphones and watch a couple silly movies as Steve plows through his platter of burgers, stopping a few times to sip air and pant, one hand cresting his swelling stomach. 

“Burgers aren't like ice cream,” Steve explains to Clint, plowing through his sixth of the day. “They go down a lot heavier. It's like, ice cream fills all my nooks and crannies, but burgers take up a bunch of real estate.” He burps heavily and pats the side of his stomach. 

“Nat says she'll come tomorrow,” Clint says. “Since we put up some of those videos you took of the challenge, business has nearly doubled. The camera loves you!”

“I love Nat's ice cream,” Steve says. “Soon as this challenge is over, I'll be back for more, believe me.”

But he's back sooner than that. On the fourth day, as the taxi deposits him and Bucky in front of their apartment, Steve pauses outside Nat's door, one hand on his burger-bloated belly. 

“I feel like I need something sweet,” Steve says. “To balance out that salt. Just a cone or something.”

He leaves with a triple scoop of peanut butter brownie, covered in peanuts in a chocolate-dipped waffle cone. And the next day – the fifth burger day – he caps his ten-burger-binge off with a four scoop hot fudge sundae. 

It's not that he's hungry. Bucky can see how difficult each bite is, can see how shallowly he's breathing, how he has to stop and thump his stomach, jostling up the wet, agonized belches that mean he's got almost no room left. 

It's addiction, pure and simple. The same addiction that led him to lift weights like a madman is leading him to eat. 

But, again, the difference lies in pleasure. Steve is beaming even as he's panting his way to his bed, even as he's pushing down the too-tight mesh basketball shorts to reveal deep, painful-looking red lines across his hips and lower belly and back. 

By the tenth day of his ten-a-day challenge (“A hundred burgers,” Bucky marvels, only retrospectively understanding the math), Steve's basketball shorts are obviously too tight. They cling to the globes of his widening ass, and the waistband bites cruelly into his lovehandles and folds down beneath the lower curve of his rounding belly. He's taken to wearing his two biggest t-shirts, a plain white one and a blue one with a red star on the chest, and Bucky can see the star stretching a little over Steve's softening pecs. The dimple of his belly button is clearly visible beneath the white material, and is an ever-growing shadow beneath the blue. Both shirts begin wrinkling at the crest of his belly, and by that hundredth burger, they're riding up no matter how many times Steve tugs them self-consciously down. 

“You need new clothes, pal,” Bucky says. 

“I need to drop this weight, is what I need to do,” Steve says, patting his belly almost in disbelief. It jiggles beneath his palm, and he poofs out a small fart. “I need to fit back into my old jeans.”

“I don't think that'll be possible,” Bucky says. “At least not until after the Pancake House Cake-a-palooza.”

This one only lasts a week, but it's a week of twenty-five pancakes for every meal: plain in the morning, blueberry at lunch, chocolate chip at dinner, slathered in as much whipped butter, whipped cream, and maple syrup as Steve can stand. He can stand a lot. He's free with the butter, and Bucky estimates he must polish off a quarter cup at each meal, if not more. Between pancake meals, Steve munches on french fries, sausage and bacon “for balance,” and by the end of that week he's admitted defeat and bought a new set of basketball shorts in one size up. His shirts strain across his chest and around his stomach, and neither are long enough to reach his waistband, so there's always a bare inch of stomach peeping out.

“I need a break,” Steve says after the pancake challenge is over. He's relaxing on Nat's couch with his fourth plate of her homemade macaroni and cheese, and at this angle he looks truly thick. His belly is pushing over his waistband and resting gingerly atop his thighs, and his jawline has softened considerably, his chin hinting at a twin. His pecs are two little pudgy handfuls and his lovehandles kind of settle into a spare tire when he sits down. 

“You deserve a break,” says Bucky. 

“Maybe take a few weeks off from this eating contest thing,” says Steve.

“That's probably a good idea,” says Nat. “Give your body time to settle.”

“Oh, I'm settling,” Steve says, touching the round side of his belly and wincing. He eases out a delicate, puffed burp, then follows it with a much deeper belch. “Scuse me. Oof. This is what I mean. My stomach's killing me right now.”

“Nat gave you an insane amount of macaroni,” Clint says. “Here, let me --”

“I can finish it,” Steve said. “I'm fine.”

“You don't have to, though,” says Clint gently. 

“I want to,” Steve says, and, as if to prove it, finishes the whole plate and has another serving.

But when they get back to their apartment and Bucky's heading for his bedroom, Steve reaches out a hand and grabs his wrist. 

“Will you...” he starts. “You know that time, at Nat's house, when you...”

“You want me to rub your...?” Bucky says. 

“Would you? I really overdid it tonight.”

“Of course,” Bucky says, and follows Steve into his bedroom. Steve props himself up on the bed, stomach mounding out in front of him, and Bucky sinks beside him and begins to stroke. Steve's gained weight since Bucky last did this – Bucky knows that, intellectually. But it's one thing to know it, and quite another to feel it. Steve's softer, even as full as he is. His belly slopes not only forward but to the sides, like a melting ice cream cone, even though it looks perfectly firm and round. Bucky kneads wide circles across the too-tight t-shirt, feeling how fucking full Steve is, how he's struggling a little for breath, his belly jerking up and down painfully as he tries to breathe. He squeezes a soft pocket of flab, strokes Steve's underbelly where it pokes from beneath the t-shirt, traces a stretchmark on Steve's hip. 

“Wish I had two hands,” Bucky mumbles.

“No,” says Steve. “This is perfect. You're perfect.”

And suddenly, Bucky becomes aware that he's not the only one with a totally unmanageable erection. Steve's soft mesh basketball shorts don't do a thing to hide it, and Steve tries to sit up, tries to pull away, but he's too full to allow for fast movement and he just ends up shoving his belly into Bucky's hand even more. 

“I'm sorry,” Steve babbles, “I just, sometimes, when I eat, I – I can't help but imagine –”

“Me too,” Bucky blurts. “Sometimes, when you eat –” and, very boldly, he grabs hold of one of Steve's flailing hands and lays it on his tented erection. Steve goes very still. For a moment, the only sound is Steve's hitched, struggling breath.

Then he says. “Should we, uh... should we do something about these?”

“Yes,” Bucky breathes out.

And they do.

+

Steve tries to take a break, and he does, sort of. He doesn't enter any new contests, at least. But this new thing between them makes things difficult. Once they've admitted that Steve's eating turns them both on, it seems silly for him to, well, not eat. The morning after their first time, Bucky takes them out to breakfast, and Steve orders a five-egg omelette with ham, bacon, and sausage and cheesy hashbrowns, and finishes Bucky's French Toast on top of it. For lunch they go to Nat's, where Steve eats three ice cream sandwiches, and for dinner they go to the burger joint where Steve eats free. He has mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, and a philly cheese melt, and before he goes to sleep he has a midnight snack of five slices of cold pizza.

It goes on like this. Bucky even wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night and finds Steve in the kitchen, sucking on spoonfuls of peanut butter, or dipping pretzels into butter. He's always got something in his mouth, always slurping on a milkshake or peeling the wrapper off a candy bar. Mid-August, Steve does a challenge at a fried chicken place, and by September, he's moved up another size in stretchy shorts. 

“I'm always so fucking full,” Steve says, about four months after their first visit to Nat's store. He's eating a box of Twinkies Bucky got him as a semi-joke. He's on his seventh, the crinkling plastic wrap a pleasant background noise for Bucky as he works on some coding, and when Steve says this, he turns to look at his boyfriend, slouched on the couch with one hand pressed to his stomach. The other hand is pushing the last bite of twinkie between his lips.

“What does it feel like?” Bucky says. 

“Hurts,” Steve says. “But I like it. It's... comforting, or something. Like I'm being hugged from the inside. There's all this pressure all the time, and I feel so... so slow, so heavy.”

“You sure are getting kind of heavy,” Bucky says. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Steve says, framing his gut with both hands, then patting the sides so it jiggles. “Look, I've got stretchmarks.”

“I've noticed,” Bucky says, leaving the table to come sit on the couch with Steve and run his fingers over the angry pink marks spreading from Steve's belly button and striping his stretched-out sides. 

“They're itchy,” Steve says. “Or anyway, my skin's itchy. From stretching, maybe.” He scratches his sides lazily. “God, look at me.”

“I'm looking, believe me.”

“I was ripped,” Steve says. “And now I'm...”

“You're fucking hot, Stevie.”

Steve pats his belly again and lets out an airy burp. “Oof,” he says. “I'm so full, Buck. But I want another twinkie. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Bucky reaches out and begins unwrapping one, using his teeth and hand. “Nothing's wrong with you,” he says. “Except there's still thirteen twinkies left in this box. Thirteen lonely little twinkies.”

“Poor twinkies,” Steve says.

“Think we should let them join their friends?” Bucky says.

“Probably,” Steve says, and shifts a little on the couch cushions. He's got a crease at his waist, the beginnings of a real roll, and Bucky can't help but reach out and mouth a little at the soft skin under Steve's jaw. 

“Let me feed you the rest of the box,” he says.

“Yeah,” Steve says, already a little breathless.

“You're gonna eat each one in just one bite,” Bucky says.

“Okay,” Steve says, and opens wide as Bucky shoves a whole cake into his mouth. He has to pack it in a little with his finger, but Steve's so obedient, chewing with difficulty and then swallowing the sticky mass. 

“Good,” says Bucky, and unwraps the next, takes his time. Steve opens his mouth, lips stretched so beautifully around the golden cake, and Bucky pushes the twinkie in and watches as Steve struggles to chew it, cheeks hugely round and his throat bobbing as he swallows. 

“Ugh,” Steve gasps. He raises a hand to soothe his belly, but Bucky bats it down.

“No touching,” he says, nudging Steve's parted lips with the next twinkie. Steve grunts a little as this one goes in, and again he raises a hand to his stomach, but he follows Bucky's orders and just hovers his fingers over the stretched-out dome. He's wriggling in his seat as Bucky shoves another twinkie into his mouth, partially from arousal and partially from pure discomfort. He's used to rubbing himself as he eats, used to pressing on his belly to comfort it, and without touch he seems to be in more pain than usual, wincing and hiccupping. He lets out a few squeaky farts and is too out of it to even apologize, too busy chewing and moaning around the twinkies. 

“Close your eyes,” Bucky says, as they near the end of the box. Plastic wrappers litter the floor around them, and Steve is sitting with his hands splayed at his sides, belly quivering, his shirt ridden up nearly to his poor, stretched belly button. Bucky slides the last two twinkies past Steve's tortured, tired lips, then says, “Keep your eyes closed,” as he stands over Steve and pulls down his pants and feeds Steve his dick like it's a twinkie. Steve takes it in with the same breathy moans, and Bucky feels a rush of air as Steve belches around his cock. He is Steve's twinkie. Steve mouths at him and sucks him and swallows him down, his cheeks hollowing, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, desperate to touch. 

Bucky doesn't linger in the afterglow of his amazing orgasm. Instead he sinks to his knees, pants still around his ankles, and places his hand at the roundest crest of Steve's stomach. Steve gasps and arches into his touch, desperate for some relief, and Bucky lowers his head to Steve's hugely erect cock, his hand still rubbing gut. He mouths across the thin fabric of Steve's shorts, his head bumping gently against the round underside of Steve's stomach, Steve's fatter thighs spread out on either side, and finally, after Steve's practically sobbing, he tugs Steve's shorts down and goes to work. 

By the time they're done, Steve's slid from the couch to the living room floor, and his twinkie-filled gut rises into the air, domelike, gurgling.

“How much did you weigh before you started the gallon challenge?” Bucky asks, nuzzling Steve's soft neck. 

“Urgh,” Steve says, and hiccups. “Bout one ninety?”

“How much do you think you weigh now?”

“Dunno,” Steve says. “I've gained at least... thirty five pounds, I'd say. So I'm probably around two twenty? Two twenty-five?”

Privately, Bucky thinks it's a little more than thirty five pounds. He comes home the next day with a scale and sets it up in their bathroom without comment. 

“I don't think I want to know,” Steve says at dinner. He's got an eggplant parmesan sub and two slices of pepperoni pizza on his plate, and there's a slick of tomato sauce on his chin that Bucky wants to lick off. 

“Really?” Bucky says. “After all that hard work, you don't wanna see the results?”

“I can see the results,” Steve says, thumping a fist into his gut. “Anyone can.”

“Up to you, babe,” Bucky says, masking his disappointment. “I was just curious.”

But later that night, as Steve's leaned up against the kitchen counter with a pint of cherry swirl, several droplets of ice cream decorating the belly shelving out beneath his t-shirt, he says, “I guess I'm kind of curious, too.”

“Yeah?” says Bucky. As per request, he's got a can of whipped cream poised above Steve's pint. “Say when.”

Steve waits, watching the cream tower rise, then, finally, “When. Thanks.” He lowers his head to lick at the whipped cream. “Mmmm. Maybe after I finish dessert, we can, I dunno, see what the scale has to say.”

The scale says: 240. 

“Holy shit,” Steve breathes. “Fifty pounds. Fifty fucking pounds. Do I look like I've gained fifty pounds?”

“What's the right answer, here?” Bucky says nervously.

“Seriously, though,” Steve says, staring at himself in the mirror, turning in profile to examine the weight of his gut, the swell of his ass. His lifts his shirt, exposing his taut, shiny, stretchmarked gut, dusted temptingly in little golden hairs. He squeezes his chubby pecs and pats the underside of his softening chin. He watches his ass bounce. 

“You wear it well, baby,” Bucky says.

“Damn,” Steve says. “Fifty pounds.”

“How do... how does that make you feel?” Bucky says, not really sure what the right tack is.

Steve grins, a little sheepishly. “Kinda... horny? Kinda hungry. But jesus, if I keep eating like this...”

“Let's get you a snack,” Bucky suggests. “In bed.”

+

He does keep eating. He's addicted to ice cream, for one thing – an addiction that would have been a real financial problem if it weren't for his neverending supply, and he has something from Nat's shop nearly every day. When he doesn't get his ice cream fix, he gets a little crabby, in fact, so Bucky learns it's in his best interest to encourage a stop there once a day. 

Summer turns to fall, and fall to winter, and Steve eats his way through pumpkin pies and apple brown betties and thick stews and chowders, as well as two new sizes in jeans. He does a doughnut challenge – a dozen a day for a dozen days – and puts on ten pounds eating donuts off Bucky's dick, then adds a few more pounds during a footlong hot-dog challenge. They go to Nat's family thanksgiving, and Steve's delirious with joy to find that everyone in her family has a gift for food. He eats so much he literally can't get off the couch, and Nat's mother and sisters bring him plate after plate of goodies as Bucky watches. Turkey legs, breasts, mounds of potatoes, ladles of gravy, endless dinner rolls with butter, heaps of stuffing, tons of cranberry sauce, bowls of creamy casserole, a slice of every pie. By the time dinner's over, Steve's newest sweater is riding up on his round stomach and he's struggling in between each breath. He's pinned to the couch for hours, rubbing his belly gingerly, and every time it seems he might've digested enough to move, someone brings him a new plate of goodies and it's back to square one. 

Bucky watches his gut swell forward day by day, a slow, inexorable creep over his thighs until Steve's spreading his legs a little when he sits down, belly dipping down. He's moving slower, and he has to change the way he paints to accommodate his belly – he can't get as close to the canvas anymore, and his thick arms get tired quicker. The two block walk to the movie theater leaves Steve sweating even in the cool November wind, and he collapses into the theater chairs with an “Oof” and a sigh of relief. The movie seats get tighter, Bucky sees, and by Christmas Steve has to kind of wedge himself in, his soft sides lipping a little over the armrests. He groans when he gets up from the couch, a soft, involuntary sigh of air as he hoists himself up, hands on his knees, and he starts snoring heavily at night, his lungs compressed under the new weight.

On New Years, they drink bottles and bottles of champagne at Nat and Clint's, and Steve eats a gallon of cookie dough for old time's sake as they cheer him on. The ice cream and the bubbles combine to make him hiccup uncontrollably, his belly jolting hugely each time, his double chin unmistakable as it wobbles. He's wincing, his belly straining against the soft grey cashmere of his sweater, and he uses both hands to hefts his gut up in order to unbutton his pants. It spills out in relief, and he squirms a little on the couch, trying to get comfy beneath its weight as Natasha sets a big plate of piroshki on the table before him. 

“Thanks,” he burbles drunkenly, and tries to lean forward to take it, but his belly's too swollen and he gets a little red-faced trying to reach it. “Buck,” he says, big blue eyes wide, and Bucky laughs, hands him the plate. Steve settles it on his belly with a pleased sigh and Bucky squeezes his knee, happier than he can ever remember being. 

+

By the time Steve hits three hundred, it's mid-winter and he's got a double chin even when he's not bending his head, and when he stands to the side, his gut sloping round and pert and swollen, Bucky counts five back rolls that end as his fat ass swells outwards. His thighs have chunked up, and his too-tight jeans are wearing out already on the inner thigh from rubbing together. His belly hasn't started drooping yet, but when he sits, his pecs perch atop his belly like two little breasts, and his sides fold into a crease, his fleshy hips pillowing. He's gotten lazy, especially in the cold, and he takes to wearing sweatpants and a hoodie at all times, his pants folded beneath his gut, the material stretched tight around his ass, his hoodie riding up as he eats throughout the day. 

He scales down his paintings and starts doing these little miniatures at the table, eating biscuits and drinking mug after mug of Nat's peppermint hot chocolate as he paints, his brow furrowed, focused, his belly bumping gently against the table as he hiccups. The miniatures are a raging success, and he starts charging more for the little portraits than he ever charged for his huge paintings. It's easier on his body to sit as he works, especially after Bucky starts making up little challenges and Steve puts on fifteen pounds in two weeks from the first one.

It's a cheesecake challenge, and it's pretty simple: eat as many cheesecakes as Steve can in two weeks, and for every ten cheesecakes he manages, he gets one day of Bucky being his total sex slave, at his complete beck and call. Every morning, Steve blends a full cheesecake with milk in the blender, and sips it continuously through a straw as he works on his paintings. He eats thirty-two frozen cheesecakes in fourteen days, and Bucky spends three days crawling around on his hands and knees, blowing Steve while he works, fetching his snacks, letting Steve take him whenever he wants. It's fucking awesome, and those fifteen pounds went on so fast that Steve's not inclined to move much, so they're holed up in the apartment together in a miasma of sex and food and love. Steve's ass seems to have taken most of those last fifteen, and it begins to spill over the sides of his chair and mound up behind him when he sits.

By summer Steve's up to three thirty, and by that next fall he's up to three sixty-eight, thanks to a quality A/C unit and endless servings of Nat's ice cream. He's truly fat, now, not just big, and he's started waddling a little as he walks, his thighs rubbing together, his gut pulling him forward. His belly's finally begun to lap over the waistband of his pants, and when he sits down to tie his shoes, he comes up bright red and wheezing for breath, laughing a little at himself as he tries to catch his wind.

“Jesus,” Steve huffs as he thumps down in their booth at the local buffet. He scoots his ass back, adjusting his gut on his lap as he tries to wedge his belly beneath the table. “I just can't get comfortable. My sides are getting so fat I can't put my arms down normally, look at this. And my back is killing me.” He takes a big bite of a friend chicken leg and mounds some macaroni on his spoon, his elbows planted on the table. “Plus, I'm so fucking hungry. We ate, what, an hour ago? And I'm starving already.”

Bucky reaches up a foot to prod Steve's belly. “You've got a lot of room in there.”

“Thank god my paintings are selling,” Steve says. “And thank god you're a computer genius. Otherwise we'd never afford my appetite.”

“Or your new clothes,” Bucky says.

“Or those,” Steve agrees, plucking at his t-shirt with a grimace. It's getting tight around the chest and shoulders. “Babe, will you run up and grab me a plate of mashed potatoes? I need 'em for this chicken. Grab some biscuits, too, if you don't mind.”

Bucky obliges with pleasure, and takes his time sauntering back to the table, observing his man from a distance. Steve's hunched over his plate, eating steadily, his chin sinking into his second chin with every bite. There's still the frame of a strong guy beneath the fat: Steve's shoulders are broad and firm, his forearms corded still with muscle, and the taut roundness of his sloping gut speaks to the invisible abs that hold it up beneath. As Bucky watches, Steve pauses to dig his fingers into the side of his belly and blow out a breath, then rubs his thumb across the stretch of his belly button. He traces the pudgy round curve of his lower belly where it sits on his lap, then he leans back in his seat with a chicken wing and munches, greasy fingers rubbing careful circles in his belly.

Bucky drops down in the booth next to him and slides the mashed potatoes towards him. “Let me butter you a biscuit, baby,” he says, and Steve grins, rolling his eyes. He watches as Bucky drops six pats of butter into the middle of the biscuit, and he takes it with a kiss to Bucky's cheek.

“Thanks,” he says, and begins munching. Even his fingers are getting pudgy, Bucky notices, and his pretty pink hands. He clears both of his plates pretty quickly, then sighs out a long belch and leans to the side to release a few little farts. He's totally unembarrassed in Bucky's presence – barely even realizes he's doing it, at this point, but habit has him fisting a hand in front of his mouth and saying a cheery, “Scuse me. Uurrrp.”

“What do you say to a new challenge?” Bucky says, idly turning a wrapped pat of butter over in his hands.

“What'd you have in mind?” Steve says, pudgy fingers drumming the round crest of his gut. 

“Three sticks of butter a day for seven days.”

“Easy,” Steve scoffs. “I'll just drink it.”

“You'll get sick of it,” Bucky says.

“Of butter?” Steve says incredulously. “Buck, this is the easiest challenge yet.”

“A month, then,” Bucky says. “Three a day for a month.”

“Challenge accepted,” Steve says, and they seal the deal with a kiss. 

+

Ninety sticks of butter later, Steve's up sixteen pounds.

“The thing is, butter doesn't feel like eating,” Steve explains early on. He's just chugged a blenderful of butter and hot chocolate mix, and then whined to Bucky that he needed real food, which was, in this case, a plate of buttery fettucini alfredo and half a loaf of buttered bread. Now he's spreading butter across chocolate chip cookies while Bucky rubs his rumbling tummy. “It doesn't make me full or anything,” Steve continues. “So I need all my normal food on top of the butter. Uuurp. Scuse me. God, I can feel the calories, though, like each mouthful's going straight to my ass. Feel like I'm about to pop.”

“You look it,” Bucky says, smoothing his hand over Steve's bloated belly, which rises and falls heavily with his breath. He tucks a finger in Steve's deep side roll, then tickles the underside of Steve's left pec where it rests against his gut. Steve wiggles a little in protest, his chin sinking cutely into the pad of fat around his neck, and then he drops a hand to the armrest of the couch and begins rocking back in preparation to stand. 

“What do you need?” Bucky says. “I'll get it.”

“Glass of milk or something?” Steve says.

He gets a glass of butter.

+

Four hundred finds him waddling in earnest, swaying back and forth as he takes small steps, pausing every so often to test his balance before he moves forward. He puffs from the couch to the kitchen, huffs from the bed to the bathroom, rests his belly on the countertops when he's snacking in the kitchen. His belly is still mind-bogglingly round, and his arms look short in comparison, his bubble-butt widening into thick thighs and fat knees, rolls forming around his ankles like a baby. By this time his gut slopes down over all his waistbands, and he has to lie flat on his back and hold it up in order for Bucky to blow him. His ass hangs off all their chairs as well as Nat's chairs, and his gut is too big to let him sit comfortably in booths anymore – though he does anyway.

“Babe, what is this?” Bucky says, watching Steve wedge himself into a booth at their favorite pizza joint. The table digs into his belly as he tries to get comfortable. “Is this denial?”

“No,” Steve says, adjusting himself so most of his belly is slung between his legs beneath the table. “I just like the pressure. Feels good. And I figure, hey, pretty soon I won't fit at all, so I should get my kicks while I can.”

It's another few months, though, and another twenty pounds, before that prediction comes true. Steve can still squeeze himself in, sure, but it's an unbearably tight fit, and after trying for a minute to make it work, Steve unsqueezes himself and hoists himself up, shaking his head. “Better make it a table,” he says. 

“This chair digs into my ass,” Steve says, shifting, cheeks getting pink from exertion. “Fuck. I feel fat.”

“You are fat.”

“Yeah, but I don't always feel it. Right now, oof. I feel heavy. Think I gained another couple pounds, actually. My face feels bigger.” He prods it with his fat fingers, and huh, it does look a little bigger.

“Your gut looks bigger,” Bucky says.

“You think?” Steve looks down, pats the sides of it. It wobbles beneath his touch. “Honestly, I feel like it can't get any bigger. I mean, look at this thing.” He skims a hand down from his chest across the round curve of it. 

“Oh, it can get bigger,” Bucky says. “Look, you can still put your arms around it. Someday...”

“God,” Steve says. “That day's still pretty far off, I think.”

But it isn't. It is, in fact, just three weeks later when Steve shouts for Bucky. Bucky comes into their bedroom to find Steve sitting on the bed, his hands resting on his gut with about a hands-width between them, framing his deep belly button. “I can't touch,” he says. “You were right! Jesus christ, I'm fat.”

“You're gorgeous,” Bucky says. “Come have breakfast.”

Steve spreads his legs, leaning forwards, preparing to stand, but then he stops. “Bring it to me in bed,” he says, and begins scootching back up against the headboards, swinging his thick legs up onto the bed with a groan. His bare feet are round and pudgy just like the rest of him, just like his fat cheeks and full lips as he eats breakfast, Bucky cozied in beside him. His belly is massive, spilling over his lap and jiggling as he moves around a little, and his once-muscled chest is soft and girlish. He has neck rolls; rolls above his elbows; rolls above his knees; rolls around his dick. 

But the biggest part about him is his smile.


End file.
